


Coming Home

by aflowerforlydia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, angst angst and more angst, harry has a revelation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:38:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aflowerforlydia/pseuds/aflowerforlydia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Harry, Harry… wake up. Please, wake up,” the voice whispers, cutting through the sturdy foundations of his house as though they were made of Wonder Bread, and not wood and gravel and stone. A wish fills him, completes him. It swells in his chest, breaking through his ribs and leaving him in a glorious agony.</p>
<p>He wishes he could wake up. He wishes he could see who she is, though he has a feeling he already knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted at HPFF, and another version exists on my LJ. But I stumbled across it recently and thought I'd put it up here, since I still like it. Enjoy!

His brain is built like a house. Or maybe an old mansion. Dusty, gloomy, curling staircases intertwined with roaming hallways. Thoughts trickle down them, up them, around them, through them—like ghosts. Incorporeal, waiting to be given the breath of life as more than passing fancies and threads of _maybe_ and _could be_ and _what if_. Some words tumble through windows, shattering them and laughing gleefully as they turn to watch the shards drip onto the floor. But soon others replace them, stooping gracefully to pick up the broken glass and placing them gently in their proper place. In these moments, his heart feels as though it could drown in the sunshine streaming through cracked window panes.  
  
Here, there is no concept of time. A single spark in the grate of the fireplace downstairs, an ember alighting, blooms into an inferno, taking the whole house by storm until he can see nothing else. The roaring, glowing flames overtake him. They feel heavy and heady and _important_ somehow. These fires are all lit by thoughts of the war—how can he possibly fight him and survive? How can he keep the ones he loves alive, not for a day, or a week, but for _years_? He loses himself in the blaze and forgets how to resurface.  
  
But sometimes, in the quiet moments when the monsters stay locked in their basement keep, when the ghosts of the mansion grow weary and lay down to sleep, time is all that exists. He doesn’t own a watch anymore, so he has to improvise. His beating heart keeps the time with a steady, deep rhythm.  
  
 _Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom._  
  
Only in these moments does he feel himself lying in the lumpy cot. He feels the flicker of distant candle flames painting his face in amber and gold. He feels a presence beside him, neither cool nor warm. He wishes he could open his eyes, wishes he could reach out and touch it, to make sure it’s real, but he cannot so much as flutter an eyelash.  
  
It is an eerie sensation, but it’s one he has grown used to during his incarceration. He wishes he knew the identity of that faceless being. Sometimes he convinces himself that he’s merely imagining things—things on top of the other things, that is—but a sharp rebuke stumbles into his mind when he does. It’s a welcome voice, magnetic and alluring and terrifying all at once, and it soothes his frazzled nerves and brings light to his dark spaces. It tells him that the presence beside him is the most real thing he has.  
  
He isn’t sure he believes it, but it’s hard to resist such impassioned speech in a house that quakes only with the wounded moans of demons that will never rest, and the crackle of wind whipping through splintering wood, and the shattering of window panes.  
  


***

  
  
At the moment, Harry is watching bright whorls of color dance through the foyer, swaying and spinning to the carnival song spilling forth from the old fashioned record player that sits by the front door. It’s a good day, and his house is filled with warmth and echoes of laughter and lingering scents from meals past.  
  
He can feel his heart swell in time to the music, and when the lights dip in front of him, so does it. It’s not an unwelcome feeling, and it reminds him of the time he snuck on to a rollercoaster at one of Dudley’s horrible birthday parties. He’d been locked in the car, but picking the lock was a simple task for him even before he knew magic.  
  
He had made it to the inside of the theme park using one of the extra tickets from the few kids who’d been unable to come to the party at the last minute, which were forgotten in the car by Uncle Vernon. Harry immediately sprinted toward the first coaster he could find. Just before him in the queue was a girl with blond hair and brown eyes. She smiled at him and asked his name. He’d stuttered, wondering why she would speak to him, with his dirty, too-big clothes and skinny face. Her name was Ady, and she had a happy smile.  
  
She smiled at him seven times before she boarded the ride, shooting him an oh-well-I-guess-I’ll-be-seeing-you glance over her shoulder.  
  
And when he boarded the ride, the rushes, the drops, the spins, the floating above everything and flying through space felt almost as good as that smile.  
  
Though he’d never say a thing to anyone, not that anyone would know to ask, he had never managed to feel quite the same thrill during any Quidditch game. And if she had ever asked, he would have told the one he loved, the one whose image he could never fully erase from the space behind his eyelids, that _her_ smile was a thousand times more fascinating than any book, more brilliant than any star, more exhilarating than any ride, more beautiful than any sunrise—but she would only laugh and tell him to stop having a go with her. And then she would say _pass me that book, Harry_ or _go find Ron and tell him that dinner’s ready_ , and then she would be gone, and he would be left wondering why he’d said anything in the first place.  
  


***

  
  
Harry is sitting downstairs in the living room when he hears the knock. At first, he thinks he is merely imagining something to break the monotony. Boredom is usually the most terrible affliction that plagues him these days. But the knock is irritating, so Harry silently wills it to stop.  
  
He closes his eyes, sinking back into a pool of memories.  
  
 _Knock, knock._  
  
Harry growls, lifts himself from the couch and pads over to the door. He yanks it open, expecting to see another animal of some kind (they’ve been popping up outside quite frequently). Instead, he is greeted by a man.  
  
Light green eyes, perpetually windblown hair, a serious mouth, an athletic build, round glasses that look out slightly of place on an adult face— _he_ is the knocker, or, rather, _another_ him is.  
  
 _Okay, it’s cliché, but at least it isn’t another woodland animal_ , Harry thinks.  
  
“So, you’re me,” Harry points out helpfully, after a long silence. “Well, since this place is as much mine as it is yours, you might as well come inside.”  
  
Other-Harry glares, pushing past Harry to get inside.  
  
“I see you don’t like me very much,” he states, or, at least he means for it to be a statement. It comes out of his mouth with a question mark pinned to the end. Other-Harry strides purposefully to the sofa and sits, giving Harry a hard stare until he joins him.  
  
“I like you just fine, when you’re not being an idiot,” he hisses.  
  
Harry looks him over. He sees no trace of humor in his twin’s features. “And who are you to say when I’m being an idiot?”  
  
A slow grin stretches across Other-Harry’s face, and Harry is reminded of the way cheesy movie villains smile when they’ve captured their nemeses and are about to destroy the world in front of them.  
  
“I’m your conscience, you tosser.”  
  
Harry snorts. “Really? And if you are so upset with me, why haven’t you come in for a visit before now?”  
  
Other-Harry grimaces. “Part of your bloody _brain_ has been shut down, ever since you fell into this mess. It’s been _hell_ trying to get here.”  
  
“I think I would’ve noticed if part of my _mind_ wasn’t working,” Harry glares.  
  
“When would you have figured it out—after your nap? After you’d danced around the entire bloody house singing show tunes and acting out scenes from crappy muggle crime shows? Or _maybe_ ,” Other-Harry shouts, “you would have figured it out after you’d wallowed in self-pity over how you don’t have the guts to tell her how you feel! Or perhaps you’d find the _bloody_ time to do an inventory check after you’d indulged in a little bath of self-loathing FOR NOT KILLING VOLDEMORT WHEN YOU HAD THE CHANCE,” Other-Harry screams.  
  
Harry lunges, seeing only his own face tinged with red and wanting nothing more than to beat it to a pulp.  
  
“YOU HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT,” he rages, taking a swing at his double.  
  
His twin easily deflects the blow with a taunting, bloody grin on his face. “I’m you—I know _exactly_ what I’m talking about.”  
  
Harry snarls, grabbing Other-Harry by the arm and twisting until he hears the satisfying sound of bones popping and cracking. Other-Harry breaks free of his grip, a furious grimace twisting his features.  
  
“Prove me wrong,” he whispers. He steps back, into the hallway, staring at Harry with blank eyes. “PROVE ME WRONG,” he screams.  
  
“What the hell do you want from me?” Harry pants, a sudden weariness ravaging him and leaving him incapable of giving chase.  
  
Other-Harry backs down the hall, into the doorway. “I want you to wake up,” he says simply, and vanishes.  
  


***

  
  
“ _Harry, Harry… wake up. Please, wake up_ ,” the voice whispers, cutting through the sturdy foundations of his house as though they were made of Wonder Bread, and not wood and gravel and stone. A wish fills him, completes him. It swells in his chest, breaking through his ribs and leaving him in a glorious agony.  
  
He wishes he could wake up. He wishes he could see who she is, though he has a feeling he already knows.  
  
A sudden furor overtakes him. He bangs on the walls with his bare hands. He grabs a shovel from the parched garden full of Aunt Petunia’s rotting flowers and smashes every window pane with it, and he still remains locked inside this miserable microcosm of _Harry_. In this moment, he hates himself more than he ever has. He wishes he could see something else, some _one_ else.  
  
“ _Harry_ ,” she murmurs, and the house itself sways toward the sound of her voice, as if to reach out and touch it, “ _Harry, please. I know—I know how disappointing it was. And I’m sorry. I wish there was more we could do then, but right now we need you. I need you._ ”  
  
“I’m _trying_!” Harry screams, bashing in a china cabinet full of Weasley sweaters. “CAN’T YOU SEE I’M BLOODY TRYING?”  
  
He hears a choked sound, like a sob, and then there is nothing. A haze of feathers floats by his face like snowflakes, bleeding from the deep wound he just gouged in the pillow he slept on at Hogwarts, which now lies forlornly on his couch.  
  
Sweat trickles down his shoulders and runs down his back. His chest is bare, and he can see every scar he has ever incurred. There is a silver half-moon on his hip, where he was grazed by a slicing spell. There is a small burn on his shoulder from the Norwegian Ridgeback he encountered during the Triwizard tournament. There are small, ropy scars sprinkled over his arms and back, some from Uncle Vernon, but most from the battles he has fought.  
  
He sets down the shovel and wipes the sweat from his forehead. A strange impulse leads him down the hall, through a door, and down the stairs.  
  
The basement is locked, but he can hear the loud rumbles and groans emanating from what is trapped inside of it. He stands before the door, a great, heavy slab of wood, and stares at the lock hanging from the door handle. He glares at it, trying to remember the combination, and, when he can’t, trying to will it to open on his own.  
  
The lock won’t budge.  
  
“What the hell do you _want_ from me?” His voice echoes, tumbling off of the walls and slamming into his ear drums. It sounds ragged, frantic.  
  
He tries to kick down the door, wincing as the impact jars his ankle and twists it. He sets his foot down on the floor carefully, and suddenly curse words, each written in brightly colored ink in every shade, appear in the air in front of him. Their spindly script slams into the door. _Bloody hell_ hits the lock. _Stupid goddamn piece of shit_ rattles the door frame. _FUCK THIS_ shatters as it attempts to blow a hole straight through the middle of the door.  
  
Harry wonders if language is the answer.  
  
“Please open,” he cries.  
  
“She’s out there! She’s _bloody waiting_ for us. OPEN THE DAMN DOOR,” he screeches.  
  
The lock clicks, and he rushes over to it. It isn’t open, but three words etched in gold appear on its side.  
  
 _Say the password._  
  
They’re in her handwriting.  
  
“Hermione,” Harry breathes. “HERMIONE.”  
  
The lock clicks open in his hands, and makes a heavy thud as he drops it to the floor. He yanks on the door handle, and it swings forward, almost knocking him over. He sprints inside, and as soon as he passes the threshold, two things happen.  
  
The door closes behind him with a _bang_ , and the room goes dark.  
  
He stretches his hands out before him like feelers. He splays his fingers and twists his arms in every direction, hoping to find something to hold on to. His fingers jam into something solid, and Harry jumps.  
  
It’s the wall.  
  
He’s utterly confused, but he decides to stay with the wall until he finds something. He runs his fingers along the it until a sound behind him freezes his feet in midstep.  
  
“Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived,” comes a terrifying, high-pitched hiss from somewhere in the darkness.  
  
It’s his voice.  
  
“Not through any special talent. No, it was my own error. I can admit that, now.”  
  
It’s _his_ voice.  
  
Harry turns around slowly, finding himself face-to-face with Lord Voldemort. His bone-white body is almost incandescent, and it emits the only light that exists in the room.  
  
“When I first heard of the prophecy, I was frightened. Oh yes, Harry. _I_ , Lord Voldemort, was afraid of an infant.” He pauses, cocking his head to the side, his red eyes studying Harry with cool disdain, and an undercurrent of sick glee. He glides toward Harry, his movements oddly fast, almost like an insect. Jerky, yet smooth. “I did not understand you then, but I understand you quite well now,” he says quickly, his head bobbing in time with the rhythm of his words, casting shadows over the planes of his cheeks as his lips curl into a sneer.  
  
“You see,” he rasps, “your only talent is this: your willingness to die. And in that way, you are my complete opposite, Harry. You _throw_ yourself at me, hoping to save the pathetic, talentless heap of inferiority you call your _friends_. Again and again. And every time, you barely escape me, finding some tiny way, some hole I didn’t think to cover, some crack I did not think to fill. And each time, I find myself wondering how it is that you have survived this long. I know now. It is luck, Harry,” he coos.  
  
He is only a foot away from Harry, who finds himself frozen in place. He is lost in a blind panic, as he knows what comes next. This is the part where he fails. This is the moment when he falters, the moment when Voldemort casts the curse that makes him tumble into a stupor, the moment where he fails everyone he has sworn to protect.  
  
“Your luck will run out tonight,” he hisses. He raises his wand, just as Harry reaches into his back pocket, where he knows his wand will be.  
  
“You call this lucky?” Harry growls, a feral grin stretching across his lips. “Of course you’d like to think it’s luck,” he says, realizing that the words are true just after they fall from his lips.  
  
“It wasn’t _lucky_ that Dumbledore gave me to the most horrible muggles he could have possibly found, and it wasn’t _lucky_ that I decided to fight for them, anyways. It wasn’t _luck_ that killed that basilisk down in the Chamber, and it wasn’t _luck_ that drove me to fight for my friends. I’ve never thrown myself into danger trusting on luck to get me through… every time, I’ve been prepared to die. And that’s why I’m not afraid of you,” he laughs, delighting in the taste of each syllable as it glides over his tongue. “I’m not afraid of you, because I have never been afraid of death. I don’t _want_ to die, but there are far worse fates. Yours, for example,” he taunts, raising his wand.  
  
“AVADA KEDAVRA” Voldemort screams, his gaunt, bone-like features twisted into a hateful grimace.  
  
“STUPEFY!”  
  
The jets of light, like colored lightning bolts, connect with a snap, creating a line between the two of them. Voldemort’s face is cast in a green tinge, while Harry is bathed in red light. Golden sparks burst and fizzle from the bright, pulsating orb that is forming where the two spells are connected. Visions of his parents bloom before Harry’s eyes, and somehow he knows that only he can see them. They’re smiling at one another.  
  
The orb moves a few inches toward Voldemort.  
  
Cold fury overtakes his features, and with a snarl, he pushes the orb back toward Harry. Harry grits his teeth, panic nearly overtaking him as the orb slides closer.  
  
“Don’t give up that easily, mate,” Ron grins from beside him. “Come on, he’s only a bloody ghost, anyways.” He claps Harry on the shoulder and vanishes. The orb inches slowly away from him, and is once again locked in the middle.  
  
“Harry,” she whispers. She’s standing behind him, and to the right. He can almost feel the phantom touch of her hair on his skin. “Harry, we need you. _I_ need you.”  
  
And then she’s gone.  
  
The orb moves slowly, steadily. He stares at it with unwavering concentration, but in his mind are brown eyes, a dusting of freckles, and a clever grin.  
  
It slides forward, forward. He’s _pushing_ , willing it to move with every breath, with every thought. It connects with the tip of Voldemort’s wand, and Harry has only an instant to relish the look of surprise on his terrifying features before he vanishes.  
  
The room is quiet and dark once again. Harry allows himself a small grin, and walks over to where the door should be. He runs his fingers along the wall until he finds the doorframe, and then runs them over the door to where the handle is.  
  
Except, there isn’t one.  
  
He frowns, wondering how he will get out. “Hermione?” he calls. “HERMIONE! The password is _Hermione_ ,” he says loudly.  
  
Nothing happens.  
  
Exhaustion overtakes him, and he turns and slides down on to the floor, his back resting against the wall and his arms around his legs. Despair tumbles over him with the force of an avalanche, and suddenly he feels so very _small_.  
  
And he is. He is also very much alone.  
  
He closes his eyes, and sinks down into a dark, warm pool where scenes play before him, some he remembers, and some that have never happened, and perhaps never will.  
  


***

  
  
“’Mione, I hate it too, but what can we do? There’s nothing else for it,” Ron says sadly. “Do you think he’d want us to just sit here by him, watching him there, not doing anything to fight Vol-Voldemort?”  
  
“We cannot _leave_ him like this, Ronald!” she screeches.  
  
Harry blinks, thinking that this is an incredibly strange dream. He often has dreams about Ron and Hermione, or just Ron, or just Hermione. Usually just Hermione. But they’re rarely ever arguing, most likely because they do it so much in real life, there isn’t much point in inventing even _more_ arguments for them in his dreams, Harry thinks. And they’re _never_ arguing about _him_.  
  
He decides to get up and stop them, before this turns into a nightmare.  
  
A groan escapes him as he lifts himself up. His bones feel as though they’re filled with Jell-O, and his joints feel as though they’ve been sharpened like knives, and they’re slicing holes inside of him. His ears are filled with cotton and his vision is fuzzy.  
  
“Guys, stop,” he rasps. “You’re not leaving me anywhere.”  
  
Silence whips through the room like a gale, drowning out their voices. He blinks, looks up, and finds himself in a tent. Ron and Hermione are standing a few yards away, with identical looks of shock etched on their faces.  
  
“Harry?” she breathes.  
  
And suddenly he understands.  
  
“I’m here,” he whispers.  
  
She throws herself into his arms, and it’s the biggest feeling that has ever filled him. It spills over, in the form of tears that trickle down his cheeks. Somehow they’re kissing. Her skin smells like pine trees, and her lips taste like pumpkin juice. Her fingers bury themselves in his hair, her cheeks brush his cheeks, and her wool sweater bunches under his fingertips.  
  
He’s finally home.  
  


fin


End file.
